This youth, this fair-faced youth, upon his lute, With strains of strange variety and harmony, Proclaiming, as it seem'd, so bold a challenge To the clear choristers of the woods, the birds, That, as they flock'd about him, all stood silent, Wond'ring at what they heard. I wonder'd too. Amet. And so do I; good! on Men. A nightingale, Nature's best skill'd musician, undertakes The challenge, and for every several strain his ready pen down to the year 1640. In one of his prologues, he thus adverts to the various sources of his multifarious labours: To give content to this most curious age, The gods themselves we've brought down to the stage, The well-shaped youth could touch, she sung her own; As well in opening each hid manuscript He could not run division with more art Upon his quaking instrument, than she, That such they were, than hope to hear again. Men. You term them rightly; For they were rivals, and their mistress, harmony. Whom art had never taught clefs, moods, or notes, Men. The bird, ordain'd to be Fail'd in, for grief, down dropp'd she on his lute, To weep a funeral elegy of tears; THOMAS HEYWOOD was one of the most indefatigable of dramatic writers. He had, as he informs his readers, an entire hand, or at least a main finger,' in two hundred and twenty plays. He wrote also several prose works, besides attending to his business as an actor. Of his huge dramatic library, only twenty-three plays have come down to us, the best of which are, Â Woman Killed with Kindness, the English Traveller, A Challenge for Beauty, the Royal King and Loyal Subject, the Lancashire Witches, the Rape of Lucrece, Love's Mistress, &c. The few particulars respecting Heywood's life and history have been gleaned from his own writings and the dates of his plays. The time of his birth is not known; but he was a native of Lincolnshire, and was a fellow of Peter-House, Cambridge: he is found writing for the stage in 1596, and he continued to exercise As tracks more vulgar, whether read or sung This was written in 1637, and it shows how eager the play-going public were then for novelties, though they possessed the theatre of Shakspeare and his contemporaries. The death of Heywood is equally unknown with the date of his birth. As a dramatist, he had a poetical fancy and abundance of classical imagery; but his taste was defective; and scenes of low buffoonery, merry accidents, intermixed with apt and witty jests,' deform his pieces. His humour, however, is more pure and moral than that of most of his contemporaries, There is a natural repose in his scenes,' says a dramatic critic, which contrasts pleasingly with the excitement that reigns in most of his contemporaries. Middleton looks upon his characters with the feverish anxiety with which we listen to the trial of great criminals, or watch their behaviour upon the scaffold. Webster lays out their corpses in the prison, and sings the dirge over them when they are buried at midnight in unhallowed ground. Heywood leaves his characters before they come into these situations. He walks quietly to and fro among them while they are yet at large as members of society; contenting himself with a sad smile at their follies, or with a frequent warning to them on the consequences of their crimes.'* The following description of Psyche, from Love's Mistress,' is in his best manner: ADMETUS.-ASTIOCHE.-PETREA. Adm. Welcome to both in one! Oh, can you tell What fate your sister hath? Both. Psyche is well. Adm. So among mortals it is often said, Children and friends are well when they are dead. Ast. But Psyche lives, and on her breath attend Delights that far surmount all earthly joy; Music, sweet voices, and ambrosian fare; Winds, and the light-wing'd creatures of the air; Clear channell❜d rivers, springs, and flowery meads, Are proud when Psyche wantons on their streams, When Psyche on their rich embroidery treads, When Psyche gilds their crystal with her beams. We have but seen our sister, and, behold! She sends us with our laps full brimm'd with gold. In 1635, Heywood published a poem entitled the Hierarchy of Angels. Various songs are scattered through Heywood's neglected plays, some of the n easy and flowing : : Song. Pack clouds away, and welcome day, To give my love good morrow: *Edinburgh Review, vol. 63, p. 223. Bird, prune thy wing, nightingale, sing, To give my love good morrow, Wake from thy nest, robin red-breast, To give my love good morrow, Shepherd's Song. We that have known no greater state [Shipwreck by Drink.] [From the English Traveller."] -This gentleman and I Pass'd but just now by your next neighbour's house, Where, as they say, dwells one young Lionel, An unthrift youth; his father now at sea: And there this night was held a sumptuous feast. In the height of their carousing, all their brains Warm'd with the heat of wine, discourse was offer'd Of ships and storms at sea: when suddenly, Out of his giddy wildness, one conceives The room wherein they quaff'd to be a pinnace Moving and floating, and the confus'd noise To be the murmuring winds, gusts, mariners; That their unsteadfast footing did proceed From rocking of the vessel. This conceiv'd, Each one begins to apprehend the danger, And to look out for safety. Fly, saith one, Up to the main-top, and discover. He Climbs by the bed-post to the tester, there Reports a turbulent sea and tempest towards; And wills them, if they'll save their ship and lives, To cast their lading overboard. At this AL' fall to work, and hoist into the street, As to the sea, what next came to their hand, A third takes the bass-viol for the cock-boat, And think it Neptune's trident; and that he JAMES SHIRLEY. The last of these dramatists-' a great race,' says Mr Charles Lamb, all of whom spoke nearly the same language, and had a set of moral feelings and notions in common'-was JAMES SHIRLEY, born in London in 1596. Designed for holy orders, Shirley was educated first at Oxford, where Archbishop Laud refused to ordain him on account of his appearance being disfigured by a mole on his left cheek. He afterwards took the degree of A.M. at Cambridge, and officiated as curate near St Albans. Like his brother divine and poet, Crashaw, Shirley embraced the communion of the church of Rome. He lived as a schoolmaster in St Albans, but afterwards settled in London, and became a voluminous dramatic writer. Thirty-nine plays proceeded from his prolific pen; and a modern edition of his works, edited by Gifford, is in six octavo volumes. When the Master of the Revels, in 1633, licensed Shirley's play of the Young Admiral, he entered on his books an expression of his admiration of the drama, because it was free from oaths, profaneness, or obsceneness; trusting that his approbation would encourage the poet to pursue this beneficial and cleanly way of poetry.' Shirley is certainly less impure than most of his contemporaries, but he is far from faultless in this respect. His dramas seem to have been tolerably successful. When the civil wars broke out, the poet exchanged the pen for the sword, and took the field under his patron the Earl of Newcastle. After the cessation of this struggle, a still worse misfortune befell our author, in the shutting of the theatres, and he was forced to betake himself to his former occupation of a teacher. The Restoration does not seem to have mended his fortunes. In 1666, the great fire of London drove the poet and his family from their house in Whitefriars; and shortly after this event, both he and his wife died on the same day. A life of various labours and reverses, thus found a sudden and tragic termination. Shirley's plays have less force and dignity than those of Massinger; less pathos than those of Ford. His comedies have the tone and manner of good society. Mr Campbell has praised his 'polished and refined dialect, the airy touches of his expression, the delicacy of his sentiments, and the beauty of his similes.' He admits, however, what every reader feels, the want in Shirley of any strong passion or engrossing interest. Hallam more justly and comprehensively states- Shirley has no originality, no force in conceiving or delineating character, little of pathos, and less, perhaps, of wit; his dramas produce no decp impression in reading, and of course can leave nonë in the memory. But his mind was poetical; his better characters, especially females, express pure thoughts in pure language; he is never tumid or affected, and seldom obscure; the incidents succeed rapidly, the personages are numerous, and there is general animation in the scenes, which causes us to read him with some pleasure. No very good play, nor possibly any very good scene, could be found in Shirley; but he has many lines of considerable beauty. Of these fine lines, Dr Farmer, in his Essay on the Learning of Shakspeare,' quoted perhaps the most beautiful, being part of Fernando's description, in the 'Brothers,' of the charms of his mistress : Her eye did seem to labour with a tear, In the same vein of delicate fancy and feeling is the following passage in the Grateful Servant, where Cleona learns of the existence of Foscari, from her page Dulcino: Cle. The day breaks glorious to my darken'd thoughts. He lives, he lives yet! Cease, ye amorous fears, More to perplex me. Prithee speak, sweet youth; How fares my lord? Upon my virgin heart I'll build a flaming altar, to offer up A thankful sacrifice for his return To life and me. Speak, and increase my comforts. Dul. Not perfect, madam, Until you bless him with the knowledge of Cle. O get thee wings and fly then; -Yet stay, Relate his gestures when he gave thee this. Cle. The sun's lov'd flower, that shuts his yellow curtain When he declineth, opens it again At his fair rising with my parting lord I clos'd all my delight; till his approach It shall not spread itself. The Prodigal Lady. [From the Lady of Pleasure."] ARETINA and the STEWARD. To be the lady of six shires! The inen, Stew. These, with your pardon, are no argument Prais'd for your hospitality, and pray'd for: No doubt, you have talk'd wisely, and confuted Enter SIR THOMAS BORNWELL. Born. How now, what's the matter? Angry, sweetheart? Aret. I am angry with myself, To be so miserably restrain'd in things Born. In what, Aretina, Dost thou accuse me? Have I not obeyed For a lady of my birth and education? Born. I am not ignorant how much Lobility And be the fable of the town, to teach Brought in the balance so, sir ? Born. Though you weigh Me in a partial scale, my heart is honest, Nay study, ways of pride and costly ceremony. Stew. Be patient, madam, you may have your plea-Fourscore pound suppers for my lord, your kinsman, Banquets for t'other lady, aunt and cousins; 1 A favourite though homely dance of those days, taking ita title from an actor named St Leger. And perfumes that exceed all: train of servants, Aret. Have you done, sir? Born. I could accuse the gaiety of your wardrobe And prodigal embroideries, under which Rich satins, plushes, cloth of silver, dare Not show their own complexions. Your jewels, Able to burn out the spectator's eyes, And show like bonfires on you by the tapers. Something might here be spared, with safety of Your birth and honour, since the truest wealth Shines from the soul, and draws up just admirers. I could urge something more. Aret. Pray do; I like Your homily of thrift. Born. I could wish, madam, You would not game so much. Aret. A gamester too? Born. But are not come to that repentance yet Should teach you skill enough to raise your profit; You look not through the subtlety of cards And mysteries of dice, nor can you save Charge with the box, buy petticoats and pearls; Nor do I wish you should. My poorest servant Shall not upbraid my tables, nor his hire, Purchas'd beneath my honour. You may play, Not a pastime, but a tyranny, and vex Yourself and my estate by 't. Aret. Good-proceed. Born. Another game you have, which consumes more Into more costly sin. There was a play on 't, Some darks had been discover'd, and the deeds too; Aret. Have you concluded Your lecture? Born. I have done; and howsoever My language may appear to you, it carries In the Ball,' a comedy partly by Chapman, but chiefly by Shirley, a coxcomb (Bostock), crazed on the point of family, is shown up in the most admirSir Marmaduke Travers, by way of fooling him, tells him that he is rivalled in his suit of a particular lady by Sir Ambrose Lamount. able manner. Mar. He thinks he has good cards for her, and likes His game well. Bos. Be an understanding knight, And take my meaning; if he cannot show Mar. I do not know how rich he is in fields, Bos. Is he a branch of the nobility? Mar. You will not kill him? Bos. You shall pardon me ; I have that within me must not be provok'd; Mar. Some living that have been kill'd? Bos. I mean some living that have seen examples, Not to confront nobility; and I Am sensible of my honour. Mar. His name is Sir Ambrose. Bos. Lamount; a knight of yesterday, And he shall die to-morrow; name another. Mar. Not so fast, sir; you must take some breath. Bos. I care no more for killing half a dozen Knights of the lower house-I mean that are not Descended from nobility-than I do To kick any footman; an Sir Ambrose were Enter SIR AMBROSE LAMOUNT. Mar. Unluckily he's here, sir. How does thy knighthood? ha Amb. My nymph of honour, well; I joy to see thee. Bos. Sir Marmaduke tells me thou art suitor to Lady Lucina. Amb. I have ambition To be her servant. Bos. Hast thou'rt a brave knight, and I commend Thy judgment. Amb. Sir Marmaduke himself leans that way too. Bos. Why didst conceal it?. Come, the more the merrier. But I could never see you there. Sir, we may live. Bos. I'll tell you, gentlemen, Cupid has given us all one livery; I serve that lady too; you understand me? But who shall carry her, the fates determine; I could be knighted too. Amb. That would be no addition to Your blood. Bos. I think it would not; so my lord told me ; Mar. You did but jest before. Of your heroic blood should fall to th' ground: There was a long cessation of the regular drama. In 1642, the nation was convulsed with the elements of discord, and in the same month that the sword was drawn, the theatres were closed. On the 2d of September, the Long Parliament issued an ordinance, 'suppressing public stage plays throughout the kingdom during these calamitous times.' An infraction of this ordinance took place in 1644, when some players were apprehended for performing Beaumont and Fletcher's King and no King'-an ominous title for a drama at that period. Another ordinance was issued in 1647, and a third in the following year, when the House of Commons appointed a provost marshall, for the purpose of suppressing plays and seizing ballad singers. Parties of strolling actors occasionally performed in the country; but there was no regular theatrical performances in London, till Davenant brought out his opera, the Siege of Rhodes, in the year 1656. Two years afterwards, he removed to the Cockpit Theatre, Drury Lane, where he performed until the eve of the Restoration. A strong partiality for the drama existed in the nation, which all the storms of the civil war, and the zeal of the Puritans, had not been able to crush or subdue. MISCELLANEOUS PIECES OF THE PERIOD 1558-1649. [Convivial Song, by Bishop Still.] "From the play of Gammer Gurton's Needle,' about 1565.] I cannot eat but little meat, My stomach is not good; But sure I think that I can drink I stuff my skin so full within Back and side go bare, go bare; Both foot and hand go cold; But, belly, God send thee good ale enough, I love no roast but a nut-brown toast, And little bread shall do me stead; No frost, no snow, no wind, I trow, Can hurt me if I wold, I am so wrapp'd, and thoroughly lapp'd, Back and side, &c. And Tib, my wife, that as her life Loveth well good ale to seek, And saith, Sweetheart, I took my part Back and side, &c. Now let them drink till they nod and wink, Good ale doth bring men to. And all poor souls that have scour'd bowls, Or have them lustily troul'd, God save the lives of them and their wives, Whether they be young or old. Back and side, &c. My Mind to me a Kingdom is. [From Byrd's Psalms, Sonnets,' &c. 1588.] My mind to me a kingdom is, That it excels all other bliss That God or nature hath assign'd: Though much I want that most would have, Yet still my mind forbids to crave. No princely port, nor wealthy store, No shape to win a loving eye; Mishap doth threaten most of all; These get with toil, and keep with fear: Such cares my mind can never bear. I press to bear no haughty sway; I wish no more than may suffice; I do no more than well I may, Look what I want, my mind supplies; Lo, thus I triumph like a king, My mind's content with anything. I laugh not at another's loss, Nor grudge not at another's gain; No worldly waves my mind can toss ; I brook that is another's bane; I fear no foe, nor fawn on friend; I loathe not life, nor dread mine end. And conscience clear my chief defence; Song. [From the same.] What pleasure have great princes And Fortune's fate not fearing, On favourite presumptuous, His ship into the East, For lawyers and their pleading O happy who thus liveth, Meditation when we go to Bed. [From the Handful of Honeysuckles.' By William Hunnis: 1585.] O Lord my God, I wandered have As one that runs astray, And have in thought, in word, and deed, 15 |